my hands brown like the earth.
cracked ân dry like the month of august.
my hands small but efficient.
they been poked ân pricked picknâ cotton.
my hands set ta work from dawn ta dusk.
they tire by noon, longnâ ta let ease they soreness.
my hands never rest though.
never do they splash cool water from the barrel.
my hands break the way papa breaks ground.
cracked nâ calloused, blister nâ bruise...
